


In Noble Hands

by SunnySidesofBlue



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Forced Overload, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonconsensual Filming, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Tactile Molestation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/pseuds/SunnySidesofBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An agent of the noble-accredited porn film industry on Cybertron has just got his hands on a new subject. </p><p>Written for this prompt over at tfanonkink: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13914624#t13914624.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are few things in this universe I enjoy as much as making mechs squirm.  
  
To be in complete control of their frames, to know that they know I’m in complete control. To be able to do whatever I want with them and see their horror at not being able to stop me, at not knowing just what I might decide to do next.  
  
Hardly surprising I ended up in this profession.  
  
My current subject has already been brought in to me and is now resting on the display berth in the middle of the room. He lies on his front, his arms firmly restrained behind his back, wrist against elbow. Thanks to the ropes pulling pedes towards arms his back is beautifully arched in a way that looks astonishingly like a frozen moment of overload rapture, at least now while he’s still unconscious. In a short while the drug he’s been fed is going to wear off and then will come the squirming, the desperate fight to escape the tight bonds that make him so utterly defenceless. Some give up right away but most keep struggling all the way through, even though they must know deep inside that it won’t do any good. Those are the one I like the best.  
  
As I hear the faint sounds of onlining systems I place myself some distance away in the shadows, not wanting my subject to notice me at once. I do make sure I can see his face, though. Seeing those first moments of confusion rapidly explode into fear and – usually – panic is one of the most arousing things I know. The feeling of having such absolute power over someone is intoxicating in ways I cannot put in words, and also very much addictive.  
  
Ah, here it comes.  
  
Cobalt optics online and a shiver runs all through the hogtied frame. I can clearly see the moment when realization hits that the failure to get out of the uncomfortable position is not due to stiffness or slow-reacting systems but the cause of external factors beyond his control. The flash of fearful understanding in his optics, followed by the unavoidable attempt to pull arms and legs free, testing the strength of the restraints. I see hands clench and unclench as the whining of strained hydraulics get louder and louder, just like the frustrated sounds muffled by the tape gag. He twists from side to side, doubtlessly probing the restraints for some weakness.  
  
He’ll find none. I’ve done this countless times and know exactly how taut the ropes must be and where to place the knots to make them impossible to reach. Not once has one of my subjects managed to get free unless I had intended for him to, and neither will this one.  
  
While he keeps fighting his losing battle I let my optics feast on his exquisite frame. Perfectly symmetrical, with clean lines and right angles, made elegant by its simplicity. His armour is well managed and polished, a pearly white with accents of red, and a dark grey chevron crowns his helm. For a commoner, he’s very good-looking.  
  
I’m really going to enjoy to this session.  
  
I wait for another couple of kliks, making sure to give him time to fully take in the facts that he a) cannot break free, and b) cannot access the comm. grid and call for help. That he is completely at the mercy of whoever brought him here.  
  
Frag, I love my job.  
  
When I decide it’s time to proceed I allow my interface panel to retract, the faint sound seeming much louder than it actually is, and the effect it has on the bound mech is very satisfying. His helm is instantly turned in my direction and I see the oh so familiar mix of fear and helpless anger in his optics. I step out of the shadows, making a show of myself both for him and for the fifty-three cameras embedded in different parts of the walls and ceiling, set to record every possible angle of the upcoming niceties.  
  
“Welcome, pretty one,” I say, languidly stroking my spike as I approach the mech on the berth. My lips curl in a smile as I see how he tries to scoot away from me. Nearly all tend to do that and I can’t help wondering just where they think that is going to get them. Even if they’d manage to wriggle their way to the edge of the berth – and that’s not as easy as it sounds, bound like that and on such a soft surface – they’d just fall down on the floor and then what? Not to mention that I could easily stop them before they’re even halfway there.  
  
Still, the struggling _is_ hot as Pit to watch and I leave him at it for a while just for fun. This is after all one of the things that make my vids so popular: I tend to draw things out.  
  
After only half a klik or so the mech stops moving. This is much sooner than normal, they don’t usually give up that fast. That means either that he’s already broken and doesn’t have the strength or will to fight no matter what I do from now on, or he’s the stubborn kind that thinks they can rob me of my pleasure by quietly enduring and not reacting.  
  
Grabbing his helm and twisting it I force him to look me in the optics and feel a wonderful surge of anticipation as I see hatred and defiance stare back at me. This one is a fighter. Good, that’ll make the program I’ve planned even better.  
  
I start by leaning in closer and placing an open-mouthed kiss on the middle of his chevron, then sweep my glossa along the grey edge up to one of the sharp tips. Grinning as I feel how he tries to pull away I move my mouth to the other tip of the chevron, sucking it a little before I bite down, not too hard but enough to earn a muffled yelp and an angry rev of his engine.  
  
Still grinning I pull away, then use both hands to turn him on his side, giving me access to his front. As I begin caressing my way down his chest, touching everything that looks and usually is sensitive, the stream of muffled sounds rise in intensity and I can only imagine the mech is cursing me to the Pit in every language known. It’ll make an excellent soundtrack.  
  
When my fingers reach his upper interface panel he tries to pull away again, making the exact same mistake everyone does. With his back and legs already bent backwards by the ropes, trying to move his hips against that arc quickly gets very taxing and every centimetre he manages to pull away will increase the strain exponentially. Soon his tension cables will no longer be able to handle the stress and then he’ll find himself relaxing _into_ my touch instead, no matter how much he tries not to.  
  
I love the look on their faces when that happens.  
  
And sure enough, after ten nanokliks or so the mech begins to tremble with the effort and another ten nanokliks later there is one last whine of protesting hydraulics before the red hips suddenly jerk forward again, pressing his cod piece against the palm of my hand. And obliging as I am I naturally start massaging it.  
  
“Hmm, aren’t you the eager one,” I say teasingly and get another angry rev in return. Without much further ado I pry the panel open, revealing the mech’s unpressurised spike. Just to see his reaction I take it in my hand and start gently pumping it. It’s very different how mechs react to having their spikes touched in a non-consensual way; some will panic, some will freeze, some will automatically pressurise and even start thrusting as higher processor functions shut down in order to isolate and diminish the effect of emotional trauma.  
  
This one does neither, just keeps squirming and growling at me, even though his movements are a little less forceful. After all, one too quick twist when someone is holding your spike can easily get _very_ painful.  
  
Once I have concluded that I won’t get a more interesting reaction than that I release the spike and reach for my subspace pocket to pull out one of my favourite contraptions for sessions like this. On the outside it looks like little more than a piece of pipe with one end stoppered, but inside it is a marvel of engineering, filled with delightful little surprises for my subjects. Each function can be controlled manually but today I’m going to use the random setting, which tends to give the visually most satisfying result.  
  
The mech stiffens and struggles to see what I’m doing when cold metal suddenly encases his spike, then he gives a strange squeal as strong magnets lock on to the base of his spike and a vacuum seal is engaged. I let go of him and watch with amusement as he tilts over back on his front and with increasing urgency rubs his hips against the berth, trying to dislodge whatever it is I’ve put on his spike. For all he knows it might be a torture device designed to rip his equipment to shreds, dissolve it with acid or simply cut it off. Such things aren’t all that unusual in this business.  
  
He needn’t to worry, though; I’ve never been a fan of mutilation, and as he is about to discover in about 24 nanokliks when the device activates, this has the complete opposite function. Telling him that would spoil the fun though, so I just step back and watch his fruitless and increasingly desperate attempts to free his spike. And frag me if it doesn’t make a great show!  
  
All of a sudden there is another muffled squeal, though with different overtones, and the white and red frame stiffens for a moment before resuming the squirming with renewed vigour. I can’t resist checking the status window for the device’s controller program on my HUD and realise I may have to modify my statement about this not being a torture device. That amount of suction plus rhythmical contractions and light magnetic pulses? Combined with the standard overload inhibitor? Frag, I have to remember that combo. The mech will be desperate for release in no time.  
  
And I’m still not quite finished with my preparations.  
  
Taking out the roll of silvery emergency repair tape that I used to gag the mech earlier I once more push him over on his side, direct the stimulator-encased spike upwards and use the tape to lock it in position against his abdomen. It probably won’t be very comfortable once he’s on his front again but he’ll soon have other things to focus on and I don’t want him to busy himself trying to detach the stimulator.  
  
So, now for the final step before the real fun begins.  
  
With deliberately exaggerated gentleness I place him on his front again, allowing myself a quiet chuckle at the sounds of discomfort and frustration coming from the mech - he really is delightfully vocal – and then proceed to fasten one end of a spreader bar at the mech’s left knee. Obviously sensing what is to come he tries to keep his legs closed but once again his position is working against him and I have little trouble forcing them apart. I push until I hear a pained groan, indicating the maximum angle the hip joints can handle, and lock the other knee to the spreader bar at that position.  
  
Then I step back to admire my work. Efficiently immobilized? Check. Completely helpless? Check. Well aware of the fact? Check. Nicely accessible? Check. Heating up quickly due to very intense spike stimulation and probably hating himself for it? Check.  
  
I know I’ve said it before but I really, _really_ love my job.  
  
Deciding to give the stimulator a little extra time to work its magic I slowly walk around the berth, enjoying the view. On the second lap I stop at the head end of the berth, squat down and rest my arms on the edge of the berth and my chin on my arms, bringing me again literally face to face with the white-plated mech. For a short moment our optics connect, then his face contorts into a grimace and a moan escapes his vocalizer as another wave of unwanted pleasure surges through him. He keeps twisting and squirming, though I’m not sure if he’s still trying to escape or if it’s merely a reaction to the rising charge in his systems. It’s quite possible he doesn’t even know that himself.  
  
Reaching out with one hand I let two of my digits trace the upper edge of his chevron. The protesting growl sounds more like a whimper this time as he pulls his helm away just as yet another surge from the stimulator hits him. As I move my hands to his neck and upper back, stroking cables and transformation seams as I find them, I feel the heat radiating off his frame, indicating just how much this is all affecting him. I can hear how his cooling systems are working to keep him from overheating, intakes getting more and more laboured by the nanoklik. Even though part of the reaction is undoubtedly due to stress there’s no denying the fact that he is getting aroused, whether he wants it or not.  
  
Getting up on my pedes again I move to the side of the berth, then get a sudden idea as my attention is drawn to the bound, red hands and I’m reminded of what is said about medics and their specialised sensory nets. Deciding to put that rumour to the test I pry one of the tightly balled fists open and begin to draw invisible figures on the palm with my fingers.  
  
The effect is instantaneous and again very satisfying. As soon as I touch his hand his entire frame goes rigid for a moment and then he tries to twist and turn his helm far enough to see what I’m up to. As I keep exploring the palm and the inner surface of the digits, keeping my touch almost feathery light, he begins to tremble and emits a sound that sounds very much like a plea. Raising my gaze to meet his optics I see the same message there, a desperate plea for me to stop.  
  
Hah, as if.  
  
Instead I give him a smirk, then bend down and take one of his fingertips in my mouth, sucking it hard and just grazing the dermal plating with my dentae.  
  
I’m not quite sure if the resulting reaction is just one of reluctant pleasure or if fear that I might damage his most important professional equipment has some part in it, but either way it’s beautiful: his helm snaps back and he screams into the gag, his legs twitch as if he’s trying to kick and he’s twisting his upper frame to get his torso and thereby his trapped hand away from me. I hold on and repeat the procedure with a second digit, then a third. Then just for the frag of it I send new instructions to the stimulator, ordering it to increase all effects by 15%.  
  
It’s quite impressive how a mech this trussed up can manage to thrash around like that. And holy slag, the sounds he makes! I swear I could overload just from listening to him, the complete and utter frustration of a mech desperate for release and yet not wanting it.  
  
Finally I climb onto the berth myself and settle behind him, my knees resting on the spreader bar. I don’t even have to look to know that a pool of lubricant is going to gush out as soon as I get his valve cover to retract - the smell is unmistakable and very strong. This is one of the reasons I like using the stimulator so much; when the charge caused by it can’t be released through a spike overload the frame will automatically start priming the owner’s valve instead, producing lubricant and increasing its sensitivity in order to facilitate a swift release of the pent-up charge. However, thanks to a nice little priority setting in our interface coding – the original function of which is to allow us control of which set of components to use at any given time – it’s impossible to achieve valve overload as long as only the spike is being stimulated. You can ramp a mech up until he starts glitching but as long as you just touch one set of his interface equipment and have the right kind of inhibitor for that set there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.  
  
Once you do add stimulation to the other set, though, you get a nice cascade effect when his systems try to get rid of all the pent-up charge even as more is added by the by now hyper-sensitive equipment.  
  
Nice for me, that is.  
I look down on the mech writhing on the berth in front of me. His first overload will probably be triggered the moment I touch his valve cover and I estimate he’ll burn through six or seven more before I even reach my first.  
  
Fortunately for me I’m more interested in quality than in quantity, and it doesn’t get much better quality-wise than being brought all the way to the edge and over solely by the uncontrolled contractions of a valve caught in a cycle of multiple overloads, especially when you know that you are in control of that cycle and don’t even have to work to keep it going. You just do what feels good for you and his overloads will keep coming anyway.  
  
Of course this does take quite the toll on the subject’s systems as we are not meant to lose that much energy that fast, but that really isn’t my problem, is it?  
  
I heard some slanderer a while ago calling it “the worst orgy in debauched over-indulgence imaginable.”  
  
Beautiful, isn’t it?  
  
I start looking for the manual release for the mech’s lower interface panel but realise almost instantly that I won’t be needing it. Whether he wants it or not he’s so desperate by now that a mere touch will be enough.  
  
Placing one hand on the small of his back to stop the wriggling for a while I then let the other travel up the inside of his right thigh and then slide one single digit over the burning panel between his legs.  
  
The valve cover snaps open instantly and the inarticulate groans and whining turn into a shriek as overload slams through him, making his bound frame shake with the intensity of the discharge.  
  
And that is when I sink into him. The ample lubrication means there’s virtually no friction at all but the pressure of my spike against the oversensitive walls of his valve in combination with the charge already running rampage through his systems is more than enough to trigger a second overload almost instantly, starting the vicious circle of cause and effect that will keep him overloading until I shut off the stimulator and stop touching him or he goes into stasis.  
  
It’ll be fun to see what happens first.  
  
***  
  
Thirty-seven kliks and four very intense overloads later I lie panting on top of my involuntary berth mate. He’s been quiet for a while and I think he lost consciousness at some point after my third and his 26th overload. I kind of lost focus after that and forgot to keep counting. Since he’s not yet in stasis I could probably get a couple of more overloads out of him but I’m not sure he’ll last long enough for _me_ to go over again and I’d rather not be left hanging halfway there and so I’ll settle with what I’ve already got. Technically I guess that means I lost the stamina contest, but no-one will ever know that and frankly I feel too damn good right now to care.  
  
So, now comes the next thing to consider: do I have the mech thrown out now at once or do I keep him here as the prop for the next vid?  
  
Pushing myself up and climbing off the berth I leave the room and ponder the matter while I take a quick shower in the adjoining washrack. When I return, still busy towelling my frame, I take one look at the pained expression on the still unconscious mech’s face and know I’ve made my decision.  
  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:There may be a short H/C-ish follow-up if anyone is interested


	2. Chapter 2

_Some time later in a very different part of town_  
  
Even though Sideswipe was surprised to discover that someone had beaten him home – Sunny and Ratchet both had longer shifts at their respective workplaces today – he didn’t think much of it when he stepped through the door to their apartment and heard sounds from the washrack. Maybe there had been a late change of schedule, such things happened all the time after all. He could feel that Sunny was still at work though, which meant it had to be Ratchet taking a shower right now. That was… a bit unusual at this time of day, but still nothing to worry about.  
  
He sent the usual ‘hi, love, I’m home’ ping and made it into the living room before it dawned upon him that Ratchet hadn’t acknowledged his comm. That was definitely unusual. Even when they had been arguing and weren’t talking for this or that reason they never completely ignored each other’s comms. Even if it was only a simple “do not disturb” or even “frag off!” they always acknowledged.  
  
Only, Ratchet hadn’t.  
  
Beginning to feel uneasy Sideswipe sent the ping again and was met with the same silence. Quickly he made his way to the washrack door.  
  
“Ratchet?” he called and knocked on the door, wondering for a nanoklik if the medic could have somehow managed to fall into recharge in there, unlikely as it was. “Ratchet, are you there? Is something wrong?” When there still was no answer the red twin grabbed the handle to push the door open, only to discover that it was locked. That was _definitely_ not normal – when had any of them ever bothered to lock that door?   
  
Increasingly worried he sent his override code to the locking device, only to have it bounce.   
  
_The frag?_ he thought, trying again with the same result. _Ratchet’s set a new entry code for the_ washrack _of all places?_  
  
“Ratch, would you please open the door,” he said. Listening closely for an answer he heard nothing but the sound of running water.  
  
That settled it. Stepping back a few paces Sidswipe braced himself and then kicked the door open.  
  
A cloud of steam billowed out and the red twin had to change the settings of his optics to be able to see through it.  
  
The sight that met him instantly sent all his systems into panic mode.  
  
Ratchet lay on the floor, in a position that indicated he had entered the washrack, activated it and then just collapsed. There were some strange abrasion marks on his forearms but otherwise he saw nothing to indicate what could have happened.  
  
::Sides, what’s happening!?:: came from Sunstreaker, who had felt the shock clearly over the bond.  
  
::Ratchet:: Sideswipe replied curtly and sent an image of the scene to his twin even as he dove into the room and started examining their lover. ::I don’t know what’s happened but I’m scanning him now and… woah! Primus, his energy levels are barely at 2%!::  
  
They both knew that anything below 15% was unhealthy and under 5% could be directly lethal.   
  
There was a stream of curses from the yellow twin, though they did little to hide his fear from his brother.  
  
::Just keep him alive, I’m coming and I’ll bring medgrade!:: he said and then cut the link.  
  
Not bothering to consider just how his brother was planning to get hold of medical grade energon Sideswipe forced his hands to stop trembling and opened the auxiliary hatch on his lower chest, suddenly grateful beyond words that Ratchet had managed to convince them to learn a little more than basic first aid, especially in a society where even emergency health care was usually reserved for those of rank or wealth far above what they themselves held.   
  
Locating the corresponding hatch on the medic’s chest he connected their systems and allowed a trickle of his own energon to seep over to his lover’s frame. Knowing how badly Ratchet needed it he found it hard not to increase the flow but he knew that too much energon too quickly would probably kill a mech this depleted and so he grit his dentae and focused on keeping the improvised drip steady.   
  
Finally noticing that water was still pouring down on them from the showerhead above he sent a ping to deactivate it and to get the ventilation system working on getting rid of all the steam. As the air cleared he got a better look at the unmoving frame in his arms and suddenly felt rage, the like of which he had never experienced before, well up inside of him. The scrapes and dents on the white and red medic’s thighs and pelvis told him all too clearly what had happened to the only mech beside his brother that he had ever loved.  
  
::Sides, what’s happening?::  
  
Sideswipe heard his brother’s words as if through a long tunnel, faint and distorted, and it took a while before he could bring himself to answer, the enormity of the situation making his helm spin.  
  
::He is… they’ve… oh Primus, no. Ratchet’s been… taken, Sunny.:: He couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘raped.’  
  
A surge of _shock-denial-anger_ slammed into him from Sunstreaker’s side of the bond, echoing his own feelings perfectly. How in the name of Primus could this have happened? They were all so careful and Ratchet being a medic should have protected him. _They_ should have protected him, and yet here he was, unconscious and barely alive on the floor of their own washrack after having been…  
  
The red twin pushed the word away again. Resolutely he focused on the energon transfusion, watching as his own levels sank and Ratchet’s slowly rose. Getting Ratchet back online had to be his first and only priority right now, everything else would have to be dealt with later and with Sunstreaker at his side.  
  
There was next to no warning at all before the outburst came. One moment the medic lay limp in Sideswipe’s arms, the next his systems roared to life and he started thrashing about as if possessed. On reflex Sideswipe tightened his grip, only to suddenly find himself half imbedded in a wall with no real recollection of how he ended up there, a laser welder mere inches from his left optic and a hand around his neck.  
  
“Don’t… touch… me!”  
  
The voice was almost unrecognizable and the feral expression on Ratchet’s face was like nothing Sideswipe had ever seen. Even the optics were different, a dark indigo instead of the normal bright cobalt.  
  
Slowly raising his hands in a gesture of surrender Sideswipe winced as the grip around his neck tightened. It was easy to forget just how strong Ratchet was and the last thing Sideswipe wanted was to have to fight him.  
  
“Please Ratchet, listen,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and calm. “It’s me, Sideswipe. I’m not going to hurt you, you’re home and you’re safe, everything’s gonna be okay.”  
  
Just as suddenly as he had attacked Ratchet released his grip and stumbled backwards. His back hit the wall and for a few moments he just stood there staring wild-opticed at the red twin before he started shaking and slowly slid to the floor, hiding his face in his arms.  
  
Sideswipe felt at a loss. Most of all he wanted to take Ratchet in his arms and just hold him but considering the previous reaction he feared that might do more harm than good. Instead he slowly went down on his knees so as not to loom over the obviously distressed mech in the relatively small space of the washrack and carefully edged closer.  
  
“Ratchet? Ratchet, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?”  
  
There was no verbal reply but a small nod of the white helm indicated he had heard and understood and Sideswipe gave a faint exvent of relief. At least that was one step in the right direction.  
  
“That’s good. I’m so sorry I scared you before, I didn’t mean to,” he went on. “Can I come and sit beside you?”  
  
Once again there was a small nod and Sideswipe crawled over and sat himself down to the medic’s left, taking care not to touch him yet. It pained him to see Ratchet like this but he knew he had to try not to let his own feelings cloud his judgement right now.  
  
“Ratchet, I… I know. I know part of what happened and I know you don’t want to be touched right now, but… you are still dangerously low on energon. Sunny’s on his way with some medgrade but until then I need you to take some more from me or you’ll go into stasis again.”  
  
Belatedly he realised that the last addition maybe hadn’t been the best argument to use since it was quite possible that Ratchet would prefer stasis right now.  
  
“Ratchet, please, let me help.”  
  
It was probably the pain in Sideswipe’s voice that finally broke through the medic’s lethargy. It was in his core programming to alleviate pain and not even his own emotional turmoil could cancel that out. With a deep in- and exvent he raised his helm, looking straight forward into the wall opposite.  
  
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, his voice raspy and hollow.  
  
That was honestly the last thing Sideswipe had expected to hear and it took him a moment to really process the meaning of the words.  
  
“Primus, Ratch,” he said, “you have nothing to apologize for. I know you didn’t mean it and I’m okay. I’m worried about _you_ , your energy levels are still in the red and… are you… hurt? In pain, I mean?”  
  
 _Stupid question, of course he’s hurt! Slag, how do I even talk about this? Please Primus, don’t let me say anything that will make things worse!_  
  
A tremor went through the medic’s frame and there was another faint nod.  
  
“Okay, um, just hold on a moment and I’ll get you some painkillers.”  
  
“Won’t help.”  
  
Sideswipe stopped mid-motion and then sank back down again. His entire being screamed at him to _do something!_ and he had never felt so completely useless in his entire life.  
  
“Please, love, what can I do?” he finally pressed out. “I want to help.”  
  
For a while it seemed like there would be no answer, then finally Ratchet turned and looked at him. The anguish in those cobalt optics made Sideswipe’s spark wail and his processor want to commit murder.  
  
“Hold me,” the medic whispered, his voice trembling just as much as his frame. “Just hold me and try not to hate me.”  
  
Both relieved and horrified by Ratchet’s words Sideswipe put his arms around him and carefully pulled the white frame against his own, mumbling soothing words of comfort and reassurance that he hoped sounded more convincing to the medic than to him.  
  
When Sunstreaker arrived some fifteen kliks later Sideswipe had managed to get Ratchet out of the washrack and onto the couch in the combined living room/study/workshop. The energon line between them was also in place once more and Ratchet’s levels had risen to 13,4%, still not good by any means but at least out of the immediate danger zone. Still defensively curled up, with his arms around his knees and his gaze fixed on his pedes, the medic looked the very epitome of pitiful, which was so unlike his usual confident, no-nonsense behaviour that the yellow twin felt a surge of deep worry in his spark.  
  
::Sides, what happened?::  
  
::I don’t know, he hasn’t told me anything yet. I’ve just seen … traces.::  
  
The yellow twin barely managed to suppress an angry growl as he noticed the scraped paint on Ratchet’s lower arms and ankles, indicating that he had been bound. The very thought of someone kidnapping, restraining and abusing _their_ medic was enough to make him seethe, but to see the marks it had left, physically and emotionally, was almost more than he could bear.  
  
Someone was going to pay for this. Dearly.  
  
::Please Sunny, not now:: Sideswipe urged, feeling how anger was beginning to take over in his brother. ::Ratchet needs us, we’ve got to stay focused.::  
  
Visibly collecting himself Sunstreaker nodded, entered the room and sat down on his knees on the floor in front of the curled-up medic. Pulling a cube of greenish medgrade energon from subspace he held it up towards Ratchet.  
  
“Here, Ratchet, drink this. It’s pure medgrade and you’ll need it to get your energy levels up to normal or your systems may start glitching.” For a moment Sunstreaker felt incredibly stupid, realising he was explaining the dangers of underfueling to a fully qualified medic, but somehow he had a feeling Ratchet was more susceptible to medical facts than emotional reasoning right now.  
  
At first the medic didn’t seem to hear, or care, but after a few encouraging nudges from Sideswipe he finally accepted the cube and drank about half of it in one go.  
  
For a moment an uncomfortable silence settled over the room, then surprisingly Ratchet spoke.  
  
“You can stop the transfusion now, Sideswipe, I’ll be alright.”  
  
The red twin automatically obeyed, halting the flow of energon from his own frame, but hesitated to disconnect the line.  
  
“Are you sure?” he said, trying to make it sound like an offer of continued support and not as if he was questioning his lover’s judgement.  
  
“Of course I’m sure!” Ratchet snarled, “I’m a medic, remember?” He downed the rest of the medgrade and then hurled the empty cube across the room, pulled Sideswipe’s transfer cable out of his auxiliary port with a lot more force than was necessary and all but threw it back at the red twin.  
  
Another ten nanokliks of awkward silence followed, then Ratchet gave a deep sigh, rubbing his forehelm with his palms.  
  
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he murmured.  
  
Sideswipe gave the medic’s shoulder a comforting squeeze before answering.  
  
“It’s okay, Ratch, we understand,” he said, adding as much care and comfort in his voice as he possibly could. “Well, Primus no, we don’t understand but we get that you are hurting and that lashing out sometimes makes things feel better.”  
  
There was no reply but some of the tension seemed to bleed out of the curled-up medic’s frame and he allowed himself to be pulled a bit further into Sideswipe’s arms.  
  
“Ratchet,” Sunstreaker said softly, seeking their lover’s optics and connecting for a short moment before the medic looked away again. “Ratchet, please, talk to us.” He very carefully laid his hand on one of the bruised arms, and even though a faint tremor ran through the medic’s frame at the touch he did not pull away from it. “We love you and we want to help but we can’t do that if we don’t know how to.”  
  
For almost a klik none of them spoke but the silence didn’t seem as oppressive this time.  
  
“Do you… know who it was?” Sideswipe finally pushed, hoping that the ‘so we know who to tear to pieces’ that was not spoken but might as well have been for how obvious it was would not make the medic retreat even further into his shell of silence.  
  
Ratchet still didn’t say anything but now it seemed more as if he was struggling with himself how to answer than ignoring the question so both twins remained silent, offering what support they could through their fields and mere presence.  
  
Nearly four kliks later, just as the twins had almost decided to try another line of approach, Ratchet moved again. Slowly, as if still not all there, he reached for a small hatch in his lower arm, opened it and exposed his data interface ports, then held his arm out in an invitation for the twins to jack in.   
  
At first neither of the twins moved, shocked by the offer. While a data interface was nothing like a sexual one it was still a very intimate and exposing contact and initiating it with someone who had so recently been violated felt wrong, especially since there could only be one thing Ratchet intended to show them. A simple image capture or a designation would have been sent over the comm. link; a link-up like this meant some form of memory sharing.  
  
“Ratchet, you don’t have to do that,” Sunstreaker said, gently covering the ports with his hand. “We didn’t mean to press you like that. If you don’t feel ready to tell us then don’t. We just want to know how we can help without making things worse.”  
  
The medic made a visible effort to collect himself, then spoke.  
  
“I want you to know. I _need_ you to know.”  
  
The words themselves seemed determined enough but there was a hint of desperation in the voice that had the twins exchange a quick glance.  
  
::Can we really trust his judgement in this?:: Sunstreaker pulsed over the bond. ::He may be a medic and theoretically know what’s right to do in a situation like this but Primus, he’s not himself right now.::  
  
::I know, but I’m not sure we can afford not to:: the red twin replied, thinking of the whispered ‘try not to hate me’ from before in the washrack. ::Just asking us to do this probably costs him a lot. There is something about what happened that he fears may push us away and I don’t think we’ll be able to convince him otherwise until he knows we know what happened.::  
  
There was a moment’s pause as the yellow twin mulled over that, his feeling of unease evident over the bond.  
  
::I’m not sure I can do it, Sides. I can barely handle knowing that it happened. Seeing it through Ratchet’s memory files, even if the projection is filtered… I may not be able to control myself. What if I hurt him?::  
  
::You won’t:: Sideswipe replied with a pulse of confidence. ::We’ll get through this, together.:: With a grim smile of icy determination he added ::Just think of it as the first step in determining what we’re going to do with the abusing can of slag that hurt Ratchet once we get our hands on him.::  
  
He got a pulse of _agreement-gratitude-determination_ in return and once again turned his full focus to the mech in his arms.   
  
“Are you sure, love?” he asked, giving Ratchet another chance to back out. “You know we’ll always love you, no matter what happens.”  
  
The medic, his position having tilted even further, pressed his helm against Sideswipe’s chest as if seeking strength, then nodded.  
  
“I need this,” he said. His field was still a chaotic mix of emotions but his voice now held some of its usual stop-being-an-aft-and-do-as-I-say quality.  
  
“Okay, if that’s really what you want then we’ll do it,” the red twin promised. “Just… please don’t push yourself too hard. Stop if you need to. Tell us to back off and we will.” He pulled out his own data interface cable and offered it to Ratchet, giving the medic full control of establishing the connection. A moment later his twin followed suite.  
  
Ratchet wasted no time in connecting them to his system. Lowering his firewalls he directed the twins’ minds to the correct set of files, then seemed to hesitate.  
  
 _’It’s okay, love, take your time,’_ came from the twins, along with a wave of _support-love_. The medic replied with a faint pulse of _gratitude-worry-supplication_ and an almost imperceptible _‘please, please don’t hate me.’_  
  
Then he triggered the sequence, dragging the twins into a blur of images, sounds and feelings.  
  
 _Going to work as usual, spending a few joors in the normal routines. Being on his way to a home call, then suddenly darkness.  
  
Waking up in an unfamiliar room, all his joints aching. Horror at discovering he cannot move, or speak, or get away from the grinning mech that suddenly appears. Trying not to panic, even with the instant comprehension of what is going to happen.   
  
Touching. Hands and lips everywhere and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. A field full of malicious, sadistic delight. Then suddenly there is pleasure as well and it’s even worse than the discomfort. He hates it, fights it, tries again and again to override the natural reaction to the strong stimulation but in the end it’s not enough.  
  
Self-loathing. A moment of fear as his hands are being touched, then further shame as his frame again reacts against his will. Charge so high it’s painful.  
  
Then overload, an agonizing discharge that offers no relief at all. Something moving inside of him and everything explodes again. And again. And again.  
  
Fading in and out of consciousness, no notion of how long it goes on. At some point there’s the presence of a different field than his tormentor’s but he’s too numb to react, or care.  
  
Waking up in a heap of trash in some anonymous back alley. Feeling sore, brittle and dirty inside out. Somehow managing to drag himself home, desperate for safety and feeling an overwhelming need to scrub himself clean of all those touches.  
  
And then darkness._  
  
The rush of images stopped, leaving only a hollow feeling of exhaustion and misery behind.  
  
For a moment the three of them just sat there, still linked and each in his own way trying to fully process what they had just experienced.  
  
Despite his earlier misgivings Sunstreaker was the first to regain some level of composure, his raging anger for once easy to set aside to be dealt with later. Slowly, careful not to dislodge the uplink cables he rose from the floor, climbed onto the couch and wrapped his arms around the two mechs already sitting there.  
  
 _’It’s okay, love,’_ he pulsed as gently as he could to the cocooned medic, who was  
now not only trembling, he was shaking. And the yellow twin knew it was not only what had been done to him that troubled the medic. There was hate, anger, disgust and pain simmering there, true, but most prominent of all was a fear that Sunstreaker could relate to all too well because it was very closely related to the kind that so often plagued him.  
  
The fear of the consequences of allowing himself to lose control.   
  
_’Just let it go,’_ he continued, and felt as well as heard the confirming pulse from Sideswipe. _’We’re here, we love you and we’ll catch you.’_  
  
At first nothing happened. Then Ratchet’s hands balled into fists, slowly but with enough force to make the metal creak. The tension spread through the rest of his limbs until the entire frame was a little more than a frozen ball of energy waiting to explode.  
  
Then he screamed.  
  
Over the links the twins felt the bubble of emotions that had been swelling rapidly along with the building physical tension suddenly erupt like a volcano, spitting out fragmented strands of itself in a cloud of rage, revulsion and _hurt_. Frustration merged with hatred into a burning desire to maim, tear apart and kill, medic’s coding be damned. Revenge, pain, harm, anger, anger, _anger!_ Throbbing, twisting, grinding and roaring it tore at him, racing around in a dark vortex of fury, feeding the storm that raged in his spark, growing and growing, spurred on by its own intensity.  
  
Then guilt suddenly made its way into the furnace of feelings and the scream took on a keening character as the attack turned inwards. Stained, failure, filthy. Weak. Useless. Shame. Fear.  
  
Undeserving of comfort.  
  
Unworthy of love.  
  
Wail turned into whimper as all energy suddenly seemed to bleed out of the medic and he curled up even tighter, burying his face in his arms. His vocaliser started to hitch and produce static and his vents struggled to get rid of all the heat his stressed out systems were generating.   
  
Inside, everything that remained from the violent storm was a vast, ashen desert and three little words endlessly repeating themselves as from a cracked record:  
  
 _’Don’t hate me. Don’t hate me. Don’t hate me.’_  
  
 _’We don’t.’_  
  
 _’We never could.’_  
  
The words didn’t seem to register in Ratchet’s processor and the twins added stronger emotional markers as they continued.  
  
 _’It’s okay, love.’ love-care-comfort-protection_  
  
 _’We’re here and we won’t leave you.’ understanding-acceptance-forgiveness_  
  
 _’You are not to blame for any of this.’ conviction-persuasion-support_  
  
 _’You are worthy.’ determination-encouragement-devotion_  
  
 _’We love you.’ resolve-stability-permanence_  
  
At long last Ratchet’s frame relaxed, the sounds of distress growing weaker and weaker until only the slightly elevate humming of cooling fans lingered. For a moment the twins though he might go into recharge – Primus knew he could use it – but then there was a long deep sigh and the medic onlined his optics.  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered. His voice sounded frayed and hoarse but it was all _him_ again and that did a great deal to ease the load on the twins’ sparks. Tenseness in their own frames that they hadn’t even been aware of was suddenly conspicuous by its absence and they both gratefully sank just a tad closer to Ratchet, giving as well as seeking comfort in the contact. None of them gave a verbal reply to the medic’s utterance, letting their touch, fields and emotions over the uplink cables speak for them.  
  
Things were not okay, and would not be for a long time, but in that moment they had peace and they had each other.  
  
And in that moment, that was enough.


End file.
